It’s been three days and I’m still not ready to talk about my haircut. I do think it’s grown a bit, but really, this is the closest I’ve come to having my head shaved. (Note to self: don’t ever do it. Your head’s too damn big.)
I’ve managed to avoid most conversations about this ultra short doo by simply replying “yes, I did get my hair cut” when anyone comments on it. Yesterday when a co-worker started to compliment me, I stopped her, explained the whole unfortunate incident in which the hair cutter chick asked how much I wanted off, I replied “oh, about half an inch. it was too long last time you cut it. i think it grew too fast.” Well, apparently she misunderstood. So now I’m left with (what feels like) a half inch worth of hair. It’s my fault, really. Never engage your hairdresser in scintillating conversation. It’s too easy to get lost in the moment and, if you’re like me, you’ll tip based not on technique or satisfaction, but rather on how good the conversation is. We talked about cartoons. I tipped her four bucks. When I got in my car, I touched my head, realized I had (what felt like) a buzz cut and almost cried.
But it’s hair. It grows. And mine grows particularly fast. So I’m adjusting. And I feel better for having shared this story with you. But please, let’s not talk about it–not for a while, anyway.
In other news, turning 32 wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. I don’t feel any older. And I’m beginning to wonder if the thirties are some sort of plateau, or maybe more like a desert oasis. Maybe this is just a holding pattern before the downward slide into my forties. Good lord, I’m going to be forty. Well, not for another eight years, but still. What the hell happened to my life?
It’s sunny today. I want to go outside. I know the sun would help my hair grow.
Can I go play now?